Metamorphosis
by Vol
Summary: The death of their race was sealed with a single rash action ... and the only thing to come of it had no idea what was going on. G1 AU, told from the perspective of several canon characters.
1. Prologue: Dead Zone

**Title: **Metamorphosis

**Description:** The death of their race was sealed with a single rash action ... and the only thing to come of it had no idea what was going on. G1 (AU), told from the perspective of several canon characters.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. That's why this is fanfiction. All original characters are not to be used without permission, which I will probably give if asked nicely.

**Author's notes:** Here is the rewritten prologue. For those of you already following this story, what was previously the prologue has become the first part of chapter one, so it's not gone. For those of you new to this, you've missed the hack-slash inconvenient that is rewriting, so enjoy the story!

Also, adding quotes to the chapters now. **Vaeru** please forgive me for shamelessly imitating you like this. You've just got your shit so _together_ ...

As always, reviews are love.

* * *

**Prologue: Dead Zone**

Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.  
**- Michel de Montagne

* * *

**

He made what felt like his hundredth circuit of the city, his sensors at full power and radar array expanded to maximum. Both came up blank on every frequency. The F-15 Eagle dipped low to weave between two skyscrapers, surveying the landscape not so far below and feeling a strange sense of isolation. He'd never thought much of human cities before, but flying low in the dark he could almost pretend he was among the spires of Iacon. It had been mostly black and still the last time he'd seen them, too.

He banked around a glass building, his reflection rippling across what was left of the mirrored windows. Transforming in mid-air, he alighted near the only reading his sensors could detect. His night-vision picked out the other winged form easily, hunched over something in the wreckage.

"Skywarp," he called.

"Hey TC," the purple jet grunted distractedly. "Didja find it?"

"No. It's gone." Thundercracker kicked aside a twisted steel beam in his path. "It must have dissipated without the containment field."

"Bummer."

"_Bummer_ is having to tell this to Megatron."

Skywarp snorted, his back still turned. "We've been offline for, like, two days. Megs probably knows already. You reach anyone on the comms?"

"No. The area is a dead zone." He peered over Skywarp's shoulder and frowned. "What the Pit are you doing?"

Skywarp didn't answer. He was crouched over one of the twisted, misshapen heaps that littered the streets, happily tinkering with its innards. His right hand held a soldering torch, and beside him was a pile of salvaged odds and ends. He had an uplink cable running from the data-processor in his left arm, the small screen scrolling with code.

Thundercracker felt his thin veneer of composure snap. He snatched the thing from the ground, ignoring Skywarp's yelp as the connection was severed, and tossed it into the front of a nearby building. Glass shattered on impact, and a blast from his shoulder cannon reduced the storefront to rubble.

"What did you do that for?" Skywarp sputtered indignantly.

The blue Seeker rounded on his companion. "What in the _Pit_ did you think you were doing?" he snarled again.

The other cringed. "I was just messing around. I got bored waiting for you, and there's tons of this stuff lying around."

Thundercracker's hands were on his throat in an instant. "'Messing around'? Messing _around_? That is _sick_, Skywarp. Even for you."

Skywarp sputtered as sensitive wires in his neck were squeezed. "What is your _deal_, TC? It's all just scrap. Who cares?"

The inside of his armour crawled, as if Earth insects had gotten into his systems. "We were right in the middle of this, you fragging _glitch_. And you can just go off poking and tinkering around like ... like ..." his vocalizer rasped and stuttered with disgust. His grip tightened and Skywarp's pistons strained frantically, trying to break free.

Both their sensor nets pinged at the same time. Thundercracker let go of his partner, and the two Seekers shared a glance of surprise.

"Autobots," Skywarp said.

Thundercracker grimaced. "Wondered when they'd get here."

"Guess that's our cue."

Thundercracker turned, preparing to launch himself into the air. He caught sight of Skywarp poking his foot through the pile of salvaged debris.

"Leave it," he snapped.

"But —"

"I said _leave it_. You've got all the scrap you need back at base already." His optics flared bright red, then dimmed again. "Just leave it," he said again softly. "Let's go."

With a last look of disappointment, Skywarp abandoned his spoils and joined his trinemate in beating a hasty retreat. The two jets circled through the dark skyscrapers, the glow of their thrusters dancing over the black glass and steel.

Skywarp pulled in close so his friend could hear him. "You know, I didn't think they had the spinal struts for something like this."

Thundercracker didn't answer. The sooner they were away from this place, the sooner he could drown himself in Mixmaster's corrosive high grade.

_Dead zone,_ he thought. That was an apt term.

He fired his afterburners and pulled out of the steel valley into open sky, his sonic boom shattering the glass behind him. Skywarp followed.

* * *

**End Prologue: Dead Zone

* * *

**

_A/N: There's a subtle symbolic reference to why TC is acting so OC here. Cookie if you can spot it._


	2. Bare Basics

**Title: **Metamorphosis

**Description:** The death of their race was sealed with a single rash action ... and the only thing to come of it had no idea what was going on. G1 (AU), told from the perspective of several canon characters.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. That's why this is fanfiction. All original characters are not to be used without permission, which I will probably give if asked nicely.

**Author's notes:** Rewritten chapter one. Added some bits in the attempt to make this story more about the canon characters and hint a little further at what's going on. Some small details have also been changed and I added a little more snark to Ratchet's jargon. I do love me some Ratchet-snarkin' ...XD

* * *

**Chapter 1: Bare Basics**

This is like a thousand piece puzzle, when you only have put two pieces on the table. Who knows what the rest of it is going to look like?  
**- Anthony Sabino

* * *

**

Grumbling more out of habit than consternation, Ratchet put down his half-empty cube and left his office. The medbay sensors he'd routed directly to his own CPU had logged a spike of mental activity in his newest patient, enough to interrupt the first quiet refuel he'd had in weeks.

The small frame was lying on the table in the medbay proper that had been its permanent home since it had been brought to the base. There was no visual change since the last time he'd checked, but Teletraan's monitoring systems confirmed an definite increase of activity in its processor. It was limited to auxiliary systems only, but it was steadily increasing. This was a better sign than he'd expected.

He set the monitoring systems to inform him when it reached the required level for manual reactivation and, despite his still-grumbling fuel tanks, took the time to inspect the work he'd done on its physical hardware. He frowned at the blank optics which stared out from the bare facial wiring and the exposed cables and circuitry left uncovered by the minimal plating on the limbs and abdomen. Ratchet had seen the innards of more 'bots than he could count, and the sight of someone's basic systems left unprotected and vulnerable still made the medic twitchy. He had hoped they'd have more time to do something about that before the initial download had finished debugging.

To be honest, he'd had his doubts the programming would take at all, even with his careful upgrades. He'd never seen a CPU in such rough shape that was still able to coherently function. No creator would have dared put a spark into such a rudimentary, unprepared shell. He was tempted to have Teletraan run another diagnostic and full systems check just to be sure, but that would be a waste of time: the last one had finished only hours before and had come back clean. There was little danger in waking it up now; it was already waking _itself_ up.

Ratchet activated his internal comm-link. _::Ratchet to Prime.::_

_::Prime here,::_ the answer came.

_::I believe it's safe to reactivate our guest now.::_

Pause. _::So soon?::_

_::Everything checks out. If there are any problems, we'll only find them when it's online, and the sooner the better. Permission?::_

_::Granted. How long will that take?::_

_::Several hours. I'm going to do it slowly, to avoid shock. You remember the state it was in when we found it.::_

_::Indeed. Do what you think is best, and let me know when she's awake.::_

Ratchet did a mental double take. _::'She?'::_

Optimus' answer sounded amused. _::Haven't you seen the faceplates? Wheeljack made them to fit her cranial structure exactly. They look female.::_

"Huh," Ratchet said out loud. It was as good as anything to base a gender off of at this point. His programming routines hadn't gotten that complex yet. _:: And I assume he's basing the rest of his reconstruction off that template, is he?::_

_::You would be correct.::_

He probably should have left medbay at some point in the last few days, Ratchet mused. If Prime, who never took a break to save his life, had found the time to examine Wheeljack's part of this project, it was a definite sign the medic had gotten too buried in his work. Then again, Wheeljack probably hadn't been out of his workshop in all that time either. _"Exact cranial structure" indeed._ The medic snorted.

_::I'll page him and tell him to bring whatever he's got ready at this point,:: _Ratchet cast a glance at the disturbingly fragile-looking body on the table. _::I know _I _sure wouldn't want to wake up looking like _that_.::

* * *

_

_ Light. Darkness. Flashes of colour, snaps of sound. It all rushed around, drawing it into a vortex of sensations that culminated in something akin to a single, mental "pop"._

_ The images faded and left behind a curious sense of stillness and clarity. A barrage of sensations intruded on that stillness: vibrations of sounds, a sense of light and heat, the feeling of another presence close by ... Curious, it tried to expand its senses, reaching out first with audios that picked up the sound of constant repeated pinging and a low hum, then heat-sensors which washed the space around it in colours of purple, blue and yellow with spatters of red here and there, and lastly ... optics._

_ A dozen systems came online at once, bombarding its processor with information ... depth of field, light intensity, movement tracking, colour and pattern recognition ... data scrolled through its CPU faster than it could grasp. Thankfully, one by one these systems went dormant until its vision cleared and narrowed down to a single object of focus._

_ That object was a face._

_ Grey metal, malleable and twisted into a bemused frown, framed by a white helmet with a large V-shaped crest that made the face look angry, though somehow it didn't think it actually was. The two blue optics in the face were focussed intently and it found itself staring back, oddly mesmerized by their glow._

_ "Well," the face said. "You're finally awake. It's about time."

* * *

_

Ratchet could not hide his amusement as he severed the uplink. Normally looking through the optics of another 'bot was a vaguely disconcerting mix of sensory input coupled with surface emotions and reactions. Most advanced processors instinctively blocked him out of the deeper functions that would take an invasive scan to penetrate, but this little 'bot's mind was startlingly clear and open and her rudimentary programming translated his visual image with unashamed curiosity.

His readout from the datapad confirmed what the uplink had told him: sensory input was functioning normally. He was a bit worried about the flashes of random code when she first came online: that didn't usually happen with a slow reactivation, but there was no sign of any malfunction. He took a moment to adjust the volume of the audios and visual colour-balance to match the standard parameters before speaking again.

"I'm going to activate your motor controls," he told her. "This may tingle."

To his surprise, her whole body twitched, faceplates contorting in surprise. He paused and waited for any sign of pain or discomfort before continuing. None came. His own sensors could detect electricity running from her core battery down her limbs, activating the circuitry only barely concealed by the spartan plating. She still hadn't moved voluntarily, or even made a sound.

"Open and close your right hand for me," he instructed.

Her optics flickered, a sign she was processing the information he'd just given her. He frowned. It shouldn't be taking this long. A protoform usually took to its first programming like oil to a new cog.

Slowly, the tiny, slender fingers twitched fully open, then curled in, then opened again. Each try became more fluid.

"Good, good," he murmured. "Now the left."

She obeyed much quicker this time. Both hands opened and closed together, first one by one, then in sync.

"Excellent. I'm going to need you to sit up now."

_That_ took a few kliks to process, and even longer to enact. Slowly, very slowly, she raised her upper body. He adjusted the incline of the table until it was flat by the time she sat fully upright.

Then she raised her hands to stare at her fingers. And wiggled them. Without being told.

Ratchet could not have hoped for a better sign of normal cognitive function, and yet he got one. Her gaze moved from her hands to her feet, and when one of them twitched experimentally back and forth her face brightened in sheer delight. She actually swung her legs over the edge of the table and stretched all of her limbs out in front of her, rotating her ankles and wrists.

The medic drummed his fingers on the berth, trying to remember the last time he'd been this entertained. He almost hated to interrupt her.

He cleared his vocalizer to get her attention. The little bot looked up at him and froze, arms and legs still extended stiffly. He could almost see her processor whirring as she took in the sight of him, towering over her even from where he stood at the other end of the table. She stretched out one hand, as if to try and touch him, and fell short by a good distance.

Rachet frowned again, looking back at his readings. Was her depth perception off? He hadn't noticed anything during the uplink, and his data indicated normal visual function. He glanced up to see her probing at the wires that linked her to Teletraan's console.

"Don't touch those!" he barked, sheerly out of habit. She jumped and dropped her hands, optics startled and completely unshuttered.

_Great,_ Ratchet snorted to himself. _Less than a breem awake, and she's already got "innocent puppy-eyes" down pat._

He pretended he hadn't seen that. "System calibration appears fine," he muttered to himself. "Boot-up is slow, but the lack of original rudimentary programming might account for that. Motor control," he smirked, "seems fine. How do you feel?" he turned his attention back to the little bot.

She stared at him, optics wide. He stared back. She didn't speak.

He frowned again. "Well? What's the matter? Vocal processor not functioning? Let's have a look."

He stepped closer and seized her chin with practised ease, lifting it to expose the wiring in her throat where the vocalizer rested, just beneath the intake shaft. What happened next surprised him.

A guttural, static-laden voice blurted some indecipherable protest, and her tiny fist collided with the side of his face with enough force to rattle his audio sensors.

It didn't hurt precisely, but it was enough to stun him momentarily. Especially the sound of that voice. Slagging _Primus_, had that vocalizer really been that badly calibrated? Slowly he turned his head back to glare daggers at his patient, who had her hands clapped over her mouth. She actually shrank back, tucking her elbows in and giving him those wide, innocent optics again.

After a poignant moment, he finally gave a tight nod. "Alright," he said slowly, "you get that one free. But if you _ever_ do that again, I will bolt you by your ankles to the _ceiling_. Understood?"

She stared at him, hands still over her mouth.

"Nod if you mean yes."

She nodded emphatically, the joints in her neck creaking.

"Good. Now let's see to that vocalizer. You sound like Omega Supreme, for Pit's sake."

She let him lift her chin this time and insert the tool that extended from his finger. The vocalizer had been tricky to install: she hadn't actually had one of her own, so they'd had to make do with a spare from Wheeljack's lab, left over after the construction of the Dinobots. He'd had to literally jury-rig it into the wiring beneath her chin. But it seemed to be holding, and a few quick adjustments would bring the pitch and tone down to something a little more feminine.

"There," he said, "try that."

Pressing a hand to her throat, she made a few uncertain staticky garbles. Annoyed, Ratchet looked back to his datapad again. He'd installed the necessary programming for formulating speech, though her earlier outburst indicated it might not have taken. He ran a scan of that section of code, looking for errors.

"Who ..." a soft, breathy voice interrupted him. He looked up at his patient, her hand still on her throat. "Who ... you ... Who ... are you ...?"

Well, that was something, at least. "I'm the one who put you back together," the CMO grunted. _Well, Wheeljack and I,_ he amended silently. "Though you didn't give me much to work with. How do you feel?"

"...fuh...feel...put togeth-thu-thurr...together" She made another soft breathy sound, but her voice was definitely stronger this time. Maybe there was no malfunction after all. She seemed to be experimenting with it, the same way she had with her hands and feet.

"Yes, yes," he muttered, taking the opportunity to extend one of those hands and test the grasping and tensile strength of her fingers, making adjustments with another small tool as he went. "Well, in any case, you should be able to think much clearer now that I've installed some proper components into that CPU of yours. Not that you'd remember anything from before, anyway."

"Where ... am I?"

The wording and tone were strong enough to make him smile. As with the motor functions, it seemed the vocal software had just taken some time to fully boot up. "Good," he said, releasing her hand and moving up to the elbow. "Very good. You're in my medbay, in a place called the Ark, on the planet Earth. Does this mean anything to you?"

Silence. Wide optics again.

"Hmm, it should," he mused, rotating her arm at the shoulder. "Your databanks should be fully accessible by now. I'm going to have to run some scans on that." There was also that nasty little bit of code he hadn't been able to fully purge, but he doubted that was causing it.

She stared at him, and he was pretty sure she hadn't understood a word. Which wasn't entirely a novel reaction in most of his patients, regardless of their CPU function. Her next question actually startled him.

"Am I... safe?"

_Safe?_ he mouthed the word. What the Pit did she mean by that? She shouldn't have enough grasp on her situation to consider the concept of danger at this point, besides which Teletraan's uplink should be keeping her basic instincts calm. Her original hard-drive had been useless and too damaged for an uncorrupted download, but it was possible she might still have residual imprints from those memories. If that was the case ...

Ratchet released her arm and leaned down until he was at optic-level with her. "Listen to me very carefully," he said, his voice low and even. "My name is Ratchet. I am the Chief Medical Officer at this base, and while you are here, I will allow _nothing_ to harm you. Do you understand?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes ... _Rat-chet."_

"_And_," he continued, giving her same rundown he gave every new patient he had ever had, "while you are in this _room_, you'll do exactly as I tell you, without question and without fuss. Got it?"

She nodded again, and a small, nervous smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "Yes, Ratchet."

He stood upright again. "Good," he said easily, picking up her other hand and continuing with his examination. "That's very good. Keep that in mind, and we'll get along just fine."

"Who ... am I?"

The facial expressions were a good sign of proper emotional output. This question made Ratchet struggle to hide a smile of his own.

"Now that," he mused, "is a _very_ good question. I don't have a clue. I imagine we'll figure that out the same time you do. Now," he let go of her arm and indicated she turn to face the console. "I want to test how you've incorporated those datafiles I downloaded into you. I'm going to run some visual stimulus by you. Just relax and don't move."

"Yes, Ratchet."

He looked up and frowned. "You ... can just say 'yes', you know."

"Yes, Ratchet," she sang. The small smile had turn into a broad grin, as if she were incredibly pleased with herself and her new game. Her legs swung idly back and forth over the edge of the table.

"Stop that."

"Yes, Ratchet."

The medic groaned inwardly. _This,_ he thought to himself, _is why I _didn't_ become a creator.

* * *

_

"I agree wholeheartedly. I just wish it didn't have to be this way." To his credit, the man on the viewscreen did look genuinely remorseful.

"So do I," Optimus Prime nodded sadly. "But for now, I think you are right. It is best we keep a low profile."

"I'm glad you see it that way, Optimus." He sat back in his chair, hands folded on the desk. Unlike his predecessor, this human had proven to be far more reasonable and sympathetic to the unique concerns of Prime's people. Though still rocky at times, it had proven to be a far more beneficial relationship for both sides. It was a shame he would hold this office for only a short time longer. "You're free respond to Decepticon threats at any time, of course, and to patrol your designated area around Mount St. Hilary. Due to our mutual trust in the past, I'm not placing you under official restrictions, you understand ..."

"I do."

"... But we may be prepared to 'escort' any of your people away from potential ... danger zones," he continued. "This is for your safety as well, you understand. Things are ... a little hot out there right now."

"Understandable."

"Quite. And I assure you, this is temporary. Just until it cools down." His friendly drawl was accompanied by a tight smile. "You've been through rough spots with us before. You know we always remember who's who and what's what, in the end."

The Autobot leader rumbled. "You don't have to convince me of anything, Mr. President. You know my desire is to keep both our peoples safe and sound."

The man smiled again, a little more loosely. "That's what I like about talking to you, Prime. You don't mince words. It's a breath of fresh air after all the runabout and mollycoddling I have to deal with every day." He relaxed and straightened in his chair. "The World Government Coalition has voted not to cease or reduce your energy allotment, nor to lift international amnesty to the Autobots, as I'm sure you know. And of course, your activities in any other country are out of my jurisdiction."

"Yes. I appreciate you speaking to me about this yourself."

"Well, that's how it should be done, isn't it? Leader to leader?" He chuckled a little dryly. "Say hello to Ironhide for me, will you, Prime?"

"I will. Optimus out."

The viewscreen went blank. Prowl stepped to his leader's side from where he'd been waiting politely out of sight. "Ironhide was removed from the recovery list as of 1700 hours today," he informed Prime. "However, Ratchet has placed him strictly on light duty for the next orn with a warning that he will, and I repeat, 'reformat him into a rototiller if he so much as touches a weapon, transforms or takes a step out the front door'."

"That's good," Prime murmured. "Have him put on internal security. It's been a while since he's filled that capacity."

"Already done, sir." It was his job, after all, to anticipate one step ahead of his commander.

"What else?"

Prowl pulled a datapad out of subspace. Though he always committed his reports to memory, he preferred to keep a physical checklist as well. "Ratchet also informed me he estimates his current undertaking should be completed by 0600 hours tomorrow. He said that was as precise as he could be at this point." He ticked off the point with his stylus before he went on. "Blaster received an encoded transmission from Jazz precisely on schedule at 1700 hours and 17 minutes today." The wing panels on Prowl's back gave a small twitch. "They are returning to the Ark as previously determined, barring any unforeseen difficulties, and will remain in radio silence until then."

Prime nodded. The Autobot Commander was silent for a moment. "Tell me what you think of the president's suggestion just now," he said finally.

Pulling up the recent memory files of the conversation, Prowl quickly analysed everything from voice inflections to facial expressions to verbal colloquialisms. "I believe he is genuine in his sentiments," he replied, "and I agree his suggestions are the best course of action for the time being."

"And what repercussions do you foresee, Prowl?"

The black and white mech didn't miss a beat. "It may appear to the general public that we are 'hiding our shame', as it were," his wing panels flicked once, as if shrugging. "I doubt any direct violence will result, but we may suffer a further loss of reputation. I do foresee restlessness becoming a problem among certain of our troops." Restlessness was _already_ becoming a problem for certain troops, he amended silently. "Coupled with recent events, it is probable this may cause conflict in the base. I can rearrange the duty roster to keep everyone sufficiently busy, if necessary."

"Good. Do it."

"Yes sir. Is there anything else?"

He already knew there was nothing else. Adding the question signalled the end of the desired report, and was a subtle prompt that if his leader had something he wanted off his chestplate, Prowl was willing to be the foil.

Prime still hadn't moved or even turned away from the blank screen. He let out a deep sigh, the rush of hot air from his ventilation systems disturbing the layer of powdered stone dust that was always present on Teletraan's consoles, a result of half the Ark's command deck being engulfed in four million years of rock formations.

"Is it right," he asked, "to keep anyone in a place against their will, on the assumption it is for their own good? Or even the greater good?"

Prowl paused to the consider the question. Variables ran through his tactical processor, spitting out statistics and possible replies, before he decided on a suitable answer. "We are a military outpost," he said, "and you are the commander. It is for you to decide what the best course of action is for all of us. That is the chain of command, after all."

"Ah, but if we were not speaking of someone within the chain of command?"

A longer hesitation. Prowl wasn't merely playing along; he knew what Prime was referring to. "I stand with my original answer, sir. It's the most practical course of action I can determine. But," he added, "as you are fond of saying, all have a right to freedom. I assume this freedom includes the choice to put oneself at risk." He paused, considering that. "That's a difficult question to answer, Prime."

"Hmm," Prime finally turned to face his second. "Yes, it is," he said. "I'll have my instructions for everyone within the hour. And if you don't mind," Prime added, "clear your schedule for ... oh, 0800 tomorrow. There's an errand I'd like you to run."

* * *

At precisely 0800 hours, the doors to the medbay slid open and Prowl was greeted with the sight of the Ark's CMO grappling with what had previously been, the last time he'd seen it, a pile of green and grey scrap.

"No! I said ... Primus fra– what do YOU want..." Ratchet's head swung towards the 'bay doors. "Oh, it's you. _Let go of that_!" he barked as the construct on the berth latched onto the stylus in his hand.

"I take it things are going ... well?" the second-in-command asked, one optic ridge twitching.

"You _don't_ have to sound so sla- ... so amused," Ratchet growled. He yanked the stylus out of the little bot's grip and held it out of reach, putting one hand on its head to hold it back while its small arms stretched out insistently.

The optic ridge raised completely. Since when did Ratchet watch his language around any patient in his medbay? The thing let out a tinny little giggle, which he found vaguely unsettling. "Is it ... functioning properly?"

"She's fine," Ratchet grunted. "She's just operating on less than ideal parameters right now. Doesn't exactly have a full set of cogs up there yet, so to speak. Sit still," he ordered it, giving its head a little shove.

Prowl took another, closer look at the bot perched on the edge of the table. Ratchet's preliminary report on its status had stated that it currently had no programming relevant to gender specifics, but Wheeljack's reconstruction did indeed make it look female. At least what had been done so far.

"Prime sent me. I take it she's able to leave the bay?"

"Leave the bay?" Ratchet goggled at the SIC. "She's been awake for nearly two joors! Primus, _yes_, she can leave the slaggin' ... aw fraggit."

"Slagging!" the little bot chirped happily.

Ratchet groaned. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to get her to stop saying that word?"

"Does she know what it means?"

"Not from any information I gave her. But she knows I don't want her saying it," he glared pointedly at the little femme, who grinned happily back at him. "It's a great big game to her now."

Prowl stared at the medic in surprise. "So she is actually cognisant? She's not just operating on routines?"

"No, she knows exactly what she's doing, fraggit."

"Fraggit!" his patient chimed with delight.

"Stop that," the medic snapped. "Look, here's the shiny stylus. You like that? Good." He looked back at Prowl. "For the love of the _Matrix_, get her out of here for a bit so I can run a sla... a diagnostic in peace, please?"

The little bot put the stylus in her mouth and experimentally bit down. _Why_ she did that, Prowl couldn't have guessed. "Prime wants to speak with her," he told the medic. "Is that advisable?"

Ratchet tapped the side of his faceplate. "Don't see why not," he said. "Letting her push her boundaries a bit might speed things along. There's a few things you need to be aware of. No stress," he said firmly. "Keep her out of sight and away from crowds. She has trouble focussing on any one thing for very long. You have to speak to her very slowly and clearly. Hey," Ratchet tapped her on the side of her head. "This is Prowl," he said, keeping his voice firm and steady. He pointed at the black-and-white Datsun officer.

The ... protoform seemed to acknowledge him for the first time, as if the Autobot Second-in-Command hadn't existed until Ratchet pointed him out. Her optics dilated and all movement ceased as she examined him.

He did the same in return, taking the opportunity to note some differences in her structure from other basic femme designs. Her optics were far too big for her facial structure. There were exposed cables sprouting from her head which seemed to attach somewhere on her back. They were disconcerting to look at, and he hoped Wheeljack was designing her a proper helm covering. The backs of her shoulders, which he could see through the minimal plating on the front, showed extra rotating gear attachments. Still, she was remarkably well put together considering the previous shape she had been in.

Ratchet pulled the stylus out of her mouth. "Say hello."

"Hello, Prowl." The greeting was accompanied by a smile that stretched from one side of her face to the other. Her voice was high in pitch and a little squeaky. Perhaps Ratchet could fix that later.

"Hello," Prowl told her. She beamed back at him. Cognisant interaction, he mused. He'd never had the chance to be this close to a protoform other than those from his own creation batch. Most did not interact with the general population until after their first complete upgrade. Of course there were always exceptions like the Aerialbots, who'd been sparked already fully complete. These days, he corrected himself, when it came to Vector Sigma there seemed to be nothing _but_ exceptions.

"Be careful what you say around her," Ratchet grunted. He tapped at his datapad with the stylus, which now bore a set of tiny indents. "She asks a lot of questions, and I'm not sure if she's fully aware what they mean. And as you saw, she does a lot of things that don't make any sense. The databanks I gave her don't seem to be syncing properly with her processor, and they were rudimentary at best. So for now, I think she's learning as she goes."

Prowl felt a little trigger of alarm in his logic centre. A 'bot with the limited ability to adequately connect information with reason was a definite concern. "How long will she be like that?"

"Few days, probably. Like my report said, I'm going to upgrade her programming in stages, and I need complete compatibility or I risk a CPU crash. The next bit is pretty simple: increase datafiles, expand logic parameters, introduce some more complete reasoning and deduction coding and some gender specifics ... so once I've worked out the bugs here, we can proceed." He paused, waving a hand at the strange little 'bot and all her exposed wires and cables. "It'll give Wheeljack some time to finish up on his end, too."

"Perhaps we should wait until then," Prowl suggested.

"No, interaction seems to be good for her," Ratchet flipped his datapad around to give Prowl a glimpse of some scrolling figures. "See? Cognitive function's increased by one-point-two-two-five since you introduced yourself. You should have seen the change once I got _her_ speaking to _me_. One more thing you should know," he added, "I couldn't root out that little coding problem, but it seems to be dormant for now. I'm going to run some kind of anti-virus with her upgrade and see if that doesn't help, but until then just keep a close eye on her."

The SIC looked dubiously at the little 'bot, who was now staring up at the ceiling in abject fascination. The thing seemed hardly much bigger than a minibot, and certainly had less mass to it. Then again, it had managed quite a bit of damage on its own before they brought it in. And judging by what he'd seen upon entering the medbay, he suspected Ratchet was more concerned at the moment about the sanctity of his medbay than the rest of the base.

Ratchet tapped her on the shoulder and she jerked her attention from the roof to the medic. "Prowl is going to take you to see someone important," he told her. "You're going to behave. Do you understand?"

Her smile, like her optics, seemed too big for her face. "Yes, Ratchet," she singsonged.

"For the love of Primus," the CMO muttered, detaching the cables that connected her to Teletraan's console. He gave the bot a little shove, prompting her to slide off the table. She wobbled on her feet a little, but Ratchet was there to steady her. "Easy there. She can walk fine, she's just getting used to it. Go on," he told her, giving her another, gentler shove towards Prowl. She stumbled, but righted herself easily enough.

"I'm sending a data packet to you and Prime with everything I just told you. I want it passed on to the crew at the soonest convenience." He waved a hand to the door. "Now shoo. I need to run these results through some sims. Make sure she's back in half a joor, tops."

Prowl looked down at the little green and grey femme peering up at him and wished, not for the first time, that Jazz was back in communication range. He was much better at this kind of thing.

"Oh, and since we had to remove some of her components for repairs, she can't use her alt form," Ratchet added. "So if she makes a run for it, I doubt she'll get very far."

"You think she'll try to escape?"

Ratchet snorted. "Slag, no. I meant if she sees something shiny."

* * *

**End Chapter 1: Bare Basics**

* * *

_A/N: The idea that memories do not exist solely in memory files but also in the spark itself is something I got from reading **Vaeru**'s amazing-beyond-words-with-a-cult-following fanfic **Juxtaposition**, which is by far one of the most excellent TF fanfics out there and one of the best stories I have ever read. I can't remember what chapter that part is explained in though, so you'll just have to read the whole thing ;D_

A note on transformer time:

**Klik** = less than a second**  
breem** = 8.3 minutes**  
joor** = about 6 hours**  
orn** = 13 days**  
vorn** = 83 years

*The Autobots have been on Earth for many years and have incorporated Earth time into their lexicon as well, so they tend to use a mix of both depending on which works better for the situation.


	3. A Terrible Name

**Title: **Metamorphosis

**Description:** The death of their race was sealed with a single rash action ... and the only thing to come of it had no idea what was going on. G1 (AU), told from the perspective of several canon characters.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. That's why this is fanfiction. All original characters are not to be used without permission, which I will probably give if asked nicely.

**Author's notes:** I apologize to those of you liked the original version of the end of this chapter; I was fond of some of it myself, but I decided eventually that it just wasn't going to work and I feel much better about the whole thing now. Plus I got to write me some Tracks and Raoul. So everybody wins.

And I still have the original chapter saved on my hard-drive. So it's not like it's gone forever.

* * *

**Chapter 2: A Terrible Name**

What a heavy burden is a name that has become too famous.  
**- Voltaire

* * *

**

_ Prowl stepped over a pile of fallen building supports and crushed metal as carefully as possible without looking too closely at it. The wreckage was strewn further than his visual range extended, though at least in this sector most of the structures were still standing. Hazard areas roped off with yellow tape were the only indication that humans had been there since the disaster. Ahead of him, Ironhide's large frame stood silhouetted next to the even more imposing form of their leader. Prowl was close enough to hear Prime's lieutenant murmur, "It's like Praxus all over again. Primus in the _Pit_."_

_ Prowl cleared his vocalizer, although their scanners would already have revealed his proximity. "The rescue crews are finished on the south end," he reported. "They said we can go in now."_

_ "I see," was the only response._

_ "Prime ..." the tactician went to stand beside his Commander, who still didn't so much as glance away from the wreckage. "They're ... not pleased with us being here."_

_ A low chuckle, devoid of humour. "I don't imagine they would be."_

_ Prowl had always admired his leader's ability to sound calm and steadfast, even when facing the kind of destruction that must haunt him in his recharge cycle. Some hundred meters ahead of them, Ratchet was directing Hound, Trailbreaker, Mirage and Brawn in loading up husks of broken machinery onto Huffer's trailer, while the Dinobots shifted and overturned large sections of the wreckage for Hoist and Grapple to search. Prowl shifted uncomfortably and felt something scrape along the asphalt. He looked down and grimaced. The spray of scattered parts around his feet appeared to have exploded outwards from their source, a twisted piled of metal and scrap not ten feet away._

_ It looked like it had once been a vending machine._

_ "We didn't mean for this," Ironhide's throaty growl made Prowl's head snap back up again, "an' they could've used our help out there. They oughtta know we're the good guys by now."_

_ "Good ... bad," Prime rumbled. "The truth of it is, we brought our war to their doorstep. We failed them this day."_

_ "With all due respect," Prowl spoke quietly, ignoring Ironhide's glance. "What happened here was an insurmountable tragedy, but the human race will survive." He met Prime's optics for the first time. "What do _we_ do now?"_

_ Prime's placed his hands on the shoulders of his two officers. "We go on. And we will _not_ give up."_

_ Ironhide rumbled a grudging acknowledgement. Prowl's optics were drawn once more to the destroyed vending machine. The piece of twisted metal gazed back, empty and sightless._

_ "One thing's fer sure," Ironhide drawled. "This is givin' us a _terrible_ name."

* * *

_

Primus, but monitor duty was _dull_. Why they needed to have someone else watching the external sensor array when Red Alert's aft was permanently glued to the security hub's main console was beyond him. If it weren't for Ratchet's orders to stay on light duty until the welding on his chestplate set, Ironhide would be running training drills or patrolling for 'Con activity, or even doing rounds in the base. Instead he was here, on redundant monitor duty, and getting so restless it felt like his processor was going to start slowly leaking out his audios.

So when the door to the command centre opened and Prowl walked in with a familiar little figure tucked in his arms, Ironhide was instantly all attention.

"Well, well, well," he crowed, highly amused at the sight. "If it ain't the little dirtbike! Nice to see you on yer feet, darlin'. So to speak."

Prowl didn't appear to appreciate the comment as he attempted to set his clinging burden down. "She became agitated upon leaving the medbay," he told him. "This proved ... somewhat _difficult_ ... to manage." His last phrase was punctuated by his attempts to extract his arm from the little 'bot's insistent grip.

Ironhide watched the struggle with a grin plastered on his faceplates. 'Bots who didn't know better would call Prowl "cold" or "emotionless" (some would use less kind words), but the security officer had known Prime's second long enough to figure out how to read him. Despite his detached words, he handled his charge firmly and gently and even allowed her to keep her death grip on his left hand.

"Would you seal the door, Ironhide?" the tactician asked him. "We were seen on the way here. Ratchet warned to avoid high-stress situations."

The larger mech complied with a knowing grunt. A stampede of curious, over-eager yet well-meaning Autobots definitely qualified as a "high-stress situation", in his opinion. The entire base had been all aflutter over Ratchet and Wheeljack's "project" since day one, and more than a few had attempted to sneak into medbay (which Ratchet had declared strictly off-limits barring an emergency) to get a peek at her. Ironhide had no doubt that this news would be flying through the base faster than an overcharged Laserbeak.

"Who spotted ya?"

Prowl's answer was a long level look that practically dripped a sarcastic, _"guess"_. Ironhide let out a low whistle. Make that Laserbeak with his _aft_ on fire.

The little green 'bot clinging to Prowl's hand looked up at the sound. Her optics focussed on him, narrowed, then dilated fully. Her whole body went still. Prowl peered down at her with interest. "She seems to have difficulty ascertaining the presence of others. The Twins spooked her somewhat; I had to carry her the rest of the way."

"Naaw," Ironhide rested his elbow joints on his kneeplates and leaned forward in his seat. "She's just a lil' shy, that's all. Ain't that right, darlin'?"

To his surprise, the slender little 'bot released Prowl's hand and took a hesitant step toward him. Prowl made a move to stop her, then apparently thought better of it. Ironhide grinned and beckoned her closer. Leaning forward where he was seated nearly put him right at optic-level with the tiny little femme. She was a sight more comforting with some proper faceplates, he thought, though he noticed that her tires and the two odd-shaped panels on her back were missing. She stared back at him with open curiosity, and suddenly flung out a hand to point right at his face.

"You!" she blurted accusingly.

Ironhide sat up a little. "Me what?" he asked, startled.

Her shoulders twitched briefly. "You ... were there ... when everything fell down."

Prowl's optic ridges shot up into his helm and for half a klik he looked as shocked as Ironhide had ever seen him. It was quickly smoothed over into a expression of mild surprise, and for good reason: the early report Ratchet had sent the command staff stated that her original hard-drive had been damaged beyond repair.

"I'll be sparked by a scraplet," Ironhide murmured. He reached out and shook the little hand that still hovered near his optics. "Well, it's nice to see you again too, little one. Ratchet fixed you up good, did he?"

Her face split into a grin at the medic's name, but before she could speak Prowl quickly stepped in and placed a hand on her shoulder joint. "Prime is waiting to speak with her, Ironhide."

"Right, right," the security officer patted the little 'bot on the head, mussing the tangle of bare cables. "You go on now, darlin'. We'll talk again later."

She beamed at him over her shoulder as Prowl herded her away. As Ironhide moved to page his commander on the console, the door to Prime's office slid open and the Autobot Commander stepped out.

The little green 'bot was tiny even compared to Prowl, who was not a particularly large mech. Standing before Optimus Prime, she barely came up to his waist. The size of him and the sight of the masked face so far above her must have been a little too much, because suddenly she was behind Prowl and bolting for the door, and though Ironhide hadn't shuttered his optics even for an instant he swore he didn't see her move. Prowl deftly shot out a hand and caught her by one arm.

"Prime," he acknowledged, gently holding her at arm's length. She made a quiet little noise and tried to duck behind him, but the Second-in-Command was having none of that. "I apologize for the delay in arriving. Ratchet had very particular instructions."

"I know. I've just received them myself."

Prime's voice seemed to have a soporific effect on the little 'bot. She stopped struggling in Prowl's grip and stared up at the huge Autobot with mix of intimidation and awe. Optimus knelt down on one knee until he was face-to-face with the little femme and held out his hand to her. He didn't appear offended when she tried to skitter away from it.

"She's only just begun to recognize the presence of others," Prowl supplied. "Her reactions have been different each time. I haven't seen a pattern thus far."

The Autobot leader chuckled. "Sometimes, my friend, there is none. Hello, small one," he said to her. "What is your name?"

She looked at him like that was the single most confusing question she'd ever heard. She pointed at the SIC who still held her by the arm. "He's Prowl," she said.

Optimus chuckled again, smiling behind his mask. "Is he really?"

She pointed behind her. "He's Ironhide," she told him. Ironhide shared a glance with Prowl; the tactician had only used the name once, and neither of them had directly told it to her. The little bot flung her arm behind her to the door. "Ratchet is that way," she finished, looking back at Optimus.

He nodded seriously. "Thank you. That's good to know. Now, who are _you_?" he pointed at her, careful not to reach too close.

Her arm dropped. "I ... have to figure that out," she said, pausing at each word, as if by by rote.

Ironhide managed to hide a chuckle behind his hand. Prime himself laughed out loud. "Yes, I suppose you do," he told her, winking at his two officers before holding his hand out to her again. "My name is Optimus. I would like to be friends, if that's alright with you."

The little bot considered the offer so seriously it was almost comical. Finally she reached out and hooked her own hand through one of Prime's fingers. She nodded once.

"Thank you, Prowl," Prime said. "I believe I can take it from here. Would you wait here for when she's ready to go back?"

The Datsun hesitated, then slowly released the arm he held. "Yes sir," he said, when it was clear the little bot wasn't going to bolt. She kept her hand around Prime's finger even as the bigger Autobot stood, forcing him to stoop a little to one side as he led her into his office. Prime did not shut the door behind them, but instead seated her so she could still see out into the control room. Ironhide winked at her when she stretched to peer over Prime's shoulder at him.

"Bye now, little dirtbike," he called to her.

Prowl's vents heaved a sigh. "I hope Ratchet finishes those upgrades soon. Her behaviour is disturbingly erratic."

"Aw, I think it's kinda cute," Ironhide settled back into his seat. "Kinda reminds ya o' Spike an' Carly's little fella, don't she?"

"Yes," Prowl said stiffly. "I find _his_ behaviour to be disturbingly erratic as well."

Right at that moment something rebounded against the closed door, and a crash followed a second later from outside. The two officers shared a look as three more crashes followed in quick succession, punctuated by a couple shouts of surprise and a low, painful groan.

Prowl's vents heaved a sigh. "_Prowl to Ratchet ..."_ he comm'ed aloud.

Ironhide smirked. Monitor duty had never been this much fun before.

* * *

In Prime's office, the little bike-bot sat in the large chair reserved for visitors, her legs dangling over the edge. She swung them back and forth, watching the movement of her feet. Instead of taking his own seat behind the desk, Prime knelt on the floor beside her chair and placed one hand on the armrest. He hoped this would be a little less intimidating to her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her.

She only stared in response, clearly not understanding. Ratchet's report had denoted her communication tendencies as limited and sporadic. He decided to try again differently. "Is Ratchet taking good care of you?"

She brightened. "Ratchet is funny."

Prime chuckled again, amused to hear the CMO described so. "And Prowl? How did you like him?"

She made a face and crossed her wiry arms. "'_Don't touch that,'_" she mimicked in a slightly deeper voice (as deep as hers would go, Prime suspected). "'_Go this way, walk faster.'_"

His hearty laugh joined her high-pitched giggle. From the control centre outside he detected a sharp snort and quickly muffled guffaw. "Indeed," he said warmly. "And Ironhide?"

Her smile grew wider. "Ironhide calls me 'dirtbike'," she said quietly.

He nodded, partly to himself. The quick changes in her demeanour confirmed Ratchet's report: her programming was noticeably still assimilating. Normally a protoform's assimilation was instant, and any further upgrades were done during a period of hands-on education. But that was with a carefully prepared shell. The fact that she was progressing so well despite all the anomalies was nothing short of miraculous. Well, he amended, miraculousness and a medic who knew what he was doing.

"I'm glad," he said to her. "Have you met anyone else?"

She nodded. "A red and a yellow. But they ran away."

"I'm not surprised." Prowl's quick report, sent en route, had told him as much. Prime decided to get down to business.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked her.

"Ratchet ... put me back together." Again, she sounded like she were repeating the words from memory.

"Yes, he did," Prime nodded. "He worked very hard to do that. Did he tell you why?"

She stared at him but did not answer. Truthfully, from Ratchet's somewhat frazzled comms, he'd been halfway prepared for her to be climbing the walls by now. Instead she sat quietly, clearly waiting for an explanation. Her optics remained fully dilated and seemed almost too big for her face.

"There ... is a place, not far from here," he began slowly. "A place called Mission City. Something happened there, something that makes you ... that makes you _very_ special."

She drew her knees up and rested her head on them, a feat of flexibility that made his joints ache a little. Her face became oddly serious and her air intakes cycled slower, as if she were letting his words sink in.

"Because of this," Prime went on, "we would like you to stay here with us, where you'll be safe."

Silence. Then ... "I am here. I am ... safe?"

"Er, yes ... Yes, of course you are." Some of Ratchet's missive was starting to make a little more sense. Perhaps this would have been better left for later. Still, the idea of keeping someone possibly against their will had been grating on him for too long already.

"If you want to _stay_ here," he rephrased, "I promise you will be cared for. But you are free to make the choice for yourself."

Silence again. She was so still for such a long time that Autobot Commander almost became afraid she'd slipped into some kind of feedback loop. Then something from Ratchet's numerous reports over the last few weeks came to him so suddenly he nearly cursed.

"Of course," he murmured to himself. Her lost hard-drive. She would have no coherent memories of ever being anywhere _but_ the Ark, and at this point, of little else but the medbay and his office. She probably had no idea what he was talking about.

_I really should have waited._ He was going to have to narrow things down, and he felt horribly manipulative for it. "Do you ..." he sighed again, resigned. "Do you want to stay with Ratchet?" he asked her.

Her face brightened immediately. "Yes!" she uncurled herself from her little ball and nearly shivered in excitement. "Yes! I want to stay with Ratchet!"

Prime nodded. That would have to be enough, for now. "Good," he said. "That's very good. I'm very glad to hear that."

"Prime." Abruptly, Prowl's voice spoke up from outside the office. "We have something of a problem."

Looking up from inside his office, Prime could see the hallway monitor clearly. "Oh dear," he sighed, standing (slowly) and keeping one hand on the chair.

Outside the command centre was a madhouse. At least a dozen Autobots (including two primary colours he knew Prowl had long ago begun to associate with a sense of impending doom) were gathered in the hallway around the closed door. It was probably a good thing that the monitor audios were not online; if the muted noise from the hallway was any indication, it was quite the cacophony out there.

"I've paged Ratchet," Prowl told him as he rejoined them in the control room, the little femme clinging to his fingers again. "He advised dispersing them before letting her go out. Actually, he _volunteered_."

"That might be best," Prime agreed. "Ironhide, if you would ..." he trailed off as the little green 'bot let go of his hand and climbed up onto the seat the security officer had vacated, perching on the edge and leaning as close to the monitor as she could without toppling off.

He and Ironhide watched with interest, Prowl with trepidation, as she stared at the screen in abject fascination. She reached out to touch the image of one of the Autobots on the monitor (Prime thought it was Sideswipe), and seemed confused when her hand met only the flat screen.

Optimus knelt beside her again. "They're out there," he indicated the closed door. She looked from the monitor to where he pointed and back again, and her small finger traced the outline of the door on the screen.

_She understands_, Prime mused. Then, against what should have been better judgement, he asked her, "would you like to meet them?"

Prowl straightened. "Sir ..." he began, but Prime silenced him by raising a finger. He waited for the little 'bot's answer.

She looked from the screen to the door, then nodded once.

"Very well," Prime held out his hand for her and let her hop off her perch. Ironhide watched with piqued curiosity, while Prowl looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"Prime, it may not be wise to ..."

"I take full responsibility," his leader told him. "If she is to live here as one of us, we must respect her right to her own choices. And they will have to meet her eventually," he added, winking at his second. "Better if I'm standing beside her when they do."

That logic was hard for Prowl to argue with. He grudgingly stood aside, much to Prime's amusement. The tactician always took his duty seriously, but he also had a strong protective streak not many had been privileged to witness.

With the little 'bot clutching his hand like a lifeline, Prime keyed the door to open.

* * *

The streets rushed by in a dull blur, overcast skies blotting out what should have been late morning sunlight. Everything was already wrong about this day.

He wished he was back in New York. Some 'bots claimed there wasn't much difference from one human city to the next, and Tracks could not have disagreed more. New York was bright lights hiding filthy streets, the noise of parties and excitement trying to drown out the endless honking of traffic and the bustle of people always moving, always in a rush, always changing. New York was where nothing stood still. New York was _excitement. _

Portland was ... well, it was _Portland_. He supposed it wasn't bad for a city, really, but it just wasn't where he would have preferred to be.

"You gonna drive around in circles all day?"

Despite the words, the voice from the Corvette's passenger seat wasn't actually annoyed. But Tracks took the bait anyway. He always did.

"You didn't have to come," he snarked at his friend. "In fact, I don't even recall asking."

The young man in the brown leather jacket rolled his eyes. Even after so many years, he still refused to sit in the Autobot's driver seat unless he was actually the one driving, and he still pretended the Corvette couldn't see him in the cab. Age hadn't done much for Raoul's attitude, either.

"Yeah, well it wasn't exactly what I'd call a scintillating visit. I think saw more of the inside of the washracks and learned more robot cuss words then I think I ever wanted to."

"Well, I'm sorry our entire company isn't as cultured as myself. They _are_ only common soldiers, after all."

"And you're not."

"Raoul, there is hardly anything common about me," the Autobot's engine purred.

It was a conversation running the same lines as a hundreds of conversations before it. So much so, it was almost as if read from a script. There was an undertone of "guess what we're not talking about" laced throughout the whole thing. It had been that way pretty much since leaving the base.

Tracks turned another corner and rumbled a sigh. Wasted. He was _wasted_ on Portland. There were still hours to burn before Raoul's flight back to New York, and there just wasn't a thing here to appreciate his time. If this were New York, they might have come across a hundred new exciting things by now, dance clubs or street shows or even, Primus forbid, a crime in progress to thwart. So far ... nothing. Well, there had been a couple dance clubs ... and a concert in that park ... but he was sure they wouldn't have been nearly as good.

"It simply isn't fair."

Tracks disliked speaking in such a straight, serious tone of voice. This wasn't the beginning of one of his famous snit-fits (which, the Corvette admitted, he did tend to have once in a while), but a genuine, honest comment about the universe in general.

Raoul opened one eye. His human friend leaned forward and put his elbows on the dash. "Nope," he said, in perfect agreement.

"I wish you'd have let me fly you back myself. I'd feel better about that than about you getting in one of those rickety death traps."

"Prime nixed it. Too risky."

"_Hang_ Prime! What's the use of it if I can't take care of my own friend? Especially after you came all the way out here on your own dime?"

Raoul didn't answer. Probably for the best, as Tracks was working himself up once again. The Corvette didn't coop up well, and he'd be the first to admit it. Though with the recent lack of Decepticon activity, laying low seemed to be in fashion.

They drove in silence, and then ...

"Thank you, by the way."

"No problem."

This part of the conversation had not been spoken before, though Tracks had it carefully rehearsed. Contrary to what some of his fellow Autobots might say, he had no trouble thanking someone when the need warranted. _'Thank you for saving a me a seat in the commissary'_ or _'Thank you for switching shifts with me, I just can't _handle_ early morning fog, it wreaks havoc on my patina'_ all came quite easily.

It was that _other_ kind of thank-you, the _'Thank you for coming all this way, just for me, because you are the best kind of friend'_ which tended to trip him up. Raoul had known him long enough to keep that part of the dialogue mercifully short and sweet.

"Hey, look at that."

Tracks slowed his impatient speed down the street. Rolling to a slow, almost-stop, both human and Autobot peered across the street to where a large and surprisingly boisterous crowd gathered beneath the commemoration statue the city had commissioned of Optimus Prime some years before. Tracks couldn't remember exactly what they'd saved the Earth from that time, but he did remember being peeved at never getting a statue of his own.

"Looks like a rally of some sort," he commented, rolling down the window for Raoul.

"A rally nothin'." Raoul leaned out for a better look. "That's a _mob_."

The Corvette slid easily to park beside the curb. "They are rather riled up," he commented.

Most of the crowds' attention was on one man, who was standing beneath Prime's feet on the statue's pedestal yelling into a loudspeaker. Tracks felt his circuits turn in disgust at the drivel he was spouting, and even more at the way the crowd was eating it up. Several of them carried large garishly painted signs that cried, _"AUTOBOTS GO HOME"_ and _"If God wanted giant robots on Earth, they would have been here before us"_ and a charming spray-painted one that proclaimed _"YOUR CAR WANT TO EAT YOU"_ in a mix of upper and lower case letters.

"Tracks," anxiety had crept onto Raoul's face. "I don't think we should stay here."

"Oh, relax," the Corvette snipped. "Sky-spy has been picking up these little gatherings all over the place. This is hardly unusual right now. They'll rant and shout and carry on and then they'll all go home to bed like good little children."

"I don't think so, man," Raoul was downright _fidgetting_ now. "This is not a good place to be an Autobot, Tracks. We should vamoose, like _now_."

Tracks couldn't even begin to describe how ridiculous that was. Regardless of his own current opinion of Portland, this was _their_ city and everyone knew it. Their base was a hop, skip and a jump away: half their company spent most of their off-time on these streets. Every giftshop in the city sold postcards with pictures of the Ark at the base of Mount St. Hilary and the entry points of city limits were marked with billboards proudly claiming to be "The Home of The Autobots!", blatantly disregarding how incorrect that was. They had enjoyed such close proximity with each other and had weathered so many disasters before, it would take considerably more than a silly riot to undermine that.

He was about to tell Raoul so when a brick crashed onto his windshield, sending a spiderweb of thin cracks across it.

"Tracks!"

His engine revved, shocked and more than a little angry. "Alright, we're leaving. Hold on!"

A regular car's windshield would have shattered on impact. Autobots were made of sturdier stuff than that, but Tracks wasn't willing to stay around any longer. His sensors had been set for long range, triggered to detect the approach of Decepticons or something equally as threatening. He hadn't bothered to scan for small, incoming projectiles. He hadn't even thought to check if anyone in the crowd were carrying such things. The thought, the very _thought_ of throwing a brick at an Autobot, at _him_ ...

"What the _devil_ ...?"

His tires ground to a halt. Within seconds of pulling away from the curb, the street was suddenly flooded with people.

His doors locked shut with a sharp click, sealing Raoul safely inside and not a moment too soon. More than one fumbling hand groped for the handles on either side as signs, fists and _shoes_ pounded against his roof and hood and sidepanels. Tracks was a "look but don't touch" kind of mech on the best of days, but right now scratches and dents were the last thing he was worried about.

"Raoul!" he cried as hands reached through the open passenger-side window.

Raoul threw himself across the driver's seat, kicking at the grasping fingers as the window haltingly rolled up. "I'm fine, man! Just go! Go!"

"I _can't_," Tracks yelled in frustration. "I'll hit them!"

The spray-painted sign slammed down on his windshield. Raoul jumped. Then, just as suddenly, the crowd surged back. The deep, roaring rumble of a ridiculously powerful engine revealed the reason: a green and orange Land Cruiser swerved into the now-open space, sending humans scattering off the street as it did.

"Don't just sit there, ya ninny!" Brawn boomed, pulling a tight U-turn a scant inch from Tracks' front fender. _"Move!_"

Gunning his own engine, the somewhat-battered Corvette clipped after the stocky vehicle. More small objects were hurled after them by the scattered crowd, some of whom were still waving their signs and shouting angry epithets. The two Autobots left them behind in short order, but neither stopped until they had pulled into a junction of alleyways that promised no human presence for a hundred yards.

Raoul pried his hands off the dash. "That was nine kinds of _not cool_," he managed to understate. Climbing shakily out of the cab, he looked at the Cruiser rumbling a few feet away. "Where'd you come from anyway?"

"Prowl sent me to keep an eye on the both of you," Brawn growled. "And yer _welcome_, by the way. Primus, were the two of you going to drive around in circles all _day_?"

The human ignored the other Autobot. "Some last day, huh Tracks?"

The Corvette's engine continued to vibrate on a low, almost muted hum. He didn't answer.

Raoul lightly slapped his roof. "Tracks! Answer me man, you okay?"

The hum turned to a steadily-increasing rumble. Then, like a cork from a burst bottle, he exploded. "No, I am _not_ okay! _Look at my windshield!_"

Raoul exchanged a look with Brawn's vehicle-mode. He patted the roof again. "Yeah, you'll be fine."

The minibot rumbled a laugh. "C'mon, hotshot. Let's get yer friend on his flight before you get into any more trouble out here."

Tracks made no argument, though his engine let out a short sputter. Raoul climbed into the driver's side and patted the steering wheel.

"I'll drive," he offered.

He normally would have protested. He relented without a fuss. "Sure. Thanks."

"No problem."

Brawn provided a rear escort as they left the alley. Raoul shifted gears with the ease of an experienced driver, and Tracks stayed silent for most of the trip, putting his trust completely in his friend. After a while, he bitterly offered his opinion to the universe in general.

"It isn't fair."

Raoul only nodded. From behind him, Brawn snorted. The universe, if it even heard, didn't bother to respond.

* * *

**End Chapter 2: A Terrible Name**

* * *

_A/N: For those of you wondering, the scene where Dirtbike names herself is no longer canon. It simply wasn't where I wanted to go with this anymore. So we can pretty much consider from here on out that Ironhide named her, though he didn't actually intend to._

_That is all._


	4. Fixing It

**READ THIS FIRST:**_  
Hello to those of you watching this story for updates! First off, you rock, and I'm sorry it has taken so long. The reason for this is that pretty much every chapter up to this point has been either added to, rewritten or changed in some way. So before you go on, I recommend rereading from the beginning, or some stuff in this chapter **will not make sense.**_

_Those of you who are new, don't worry. You're good to go. Feel free to flame me scathingly for taking up your time in this awful way. That is all.

* * *

_

**Title: **Metamorphosis

**Description:** The death of their race was sealed with a single rash action ... and the only thing to come of it had no idea what was going on. G1 (AU), told from the perspective of several canon characters.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. That's why this is fanfiction. All original characters are not to be used without permission, which I will probably give if asked nicely.

**Author's notes:** Chapter 3 is in da house! Wow holy crap, this took way too long but now it's done. I had a lot of fun with this one and writing characters I haven't had much practice with. HUGE thanks to the earthly muse **Ghost of the Dawn**, author of some of my most favourite fics and who graciously acted as a sounding board and encouragement buffet while I was undertaking the task of turning a silly OC-driven ficlet into a story I am seriously excited about now. Honey, I hope I done you proud ;)

If you somehow missed the huge announcement at the top of the page ... I'm not kidding. This won't make as much sense if you don't heed. Heed, I say! *shaky finger*

* * *

**Chapter 3: Fixing It**

The fundamental problem with program maintenance is that fixing a defect has a substantial chance of introducing another.**  
- Frederick P. Brooks, Jr.**

This is what I do when I have problems with my laptop, I turn it off and then I ... turn it on again.  
- **John Sheppard,** _Stargate: Atlantis

* * *

_

Prowl knew that Jazz had returned even before the other black-and-white broke the code on his office door and crept inside while he was turned to face the communications console. Blaster had commed half a joor earlier to tell him the team was back in radio range and it was completely, entirely and utterly logical to expect Jazz to do something other than simply walk through the door and deliver his report in a normal fashion.

It was also perfectly logical for Prowl to pretend he suspected nothing out of the ordinary and sit back down at his desk as though the Third-in-Command of the Autobot forces and Head of Special Operations was not hunkered down on the other side like a mischievous sparkling. Just as it was logical to lean over and pretend to open a compartment while actually pulling out a pair of magna-cuffs and clapping them around both Jazz's exposed wrist and the leg of the desk.

Prowl straightened and picked up a datapad from the stack on his desk. There was a moment of silence, then ...

"Heard me come in, huh?"

"You might want to work on that," Prowl responded mildly.

A couple of light clicks later, and Jazz stood up with the open cuffs dangling from his hand. "Well, ya might want to get a pair o' these a protoform couldn't escape from," he dropped the cuffs into Prowl's waiting hand and made himself comfortable in the other chair. "That fer me?" he asked, pointing at the cube of energon resting on the edge of the desk.

Prowl nodded once. "I thought you might appreciate it, as I had no doubt you would come here and deliver your report fastidiously before seeing to your own needs," he said. His voice was without the barest trace of sarcasm. It took some effort.

Jazz snickered as he accepted the offering. "Missed you too, Prowler." Swallowing down half its contents, he added, "What else have I missed, by th' way, bein' _incommunicado_ fer almost two orns? Th' whole place is all a-buzzin' over somethin'."

Prowl gave him a level look. He knew his friend and fellow officer well enough to know Jazz had probably put most of the pieces together from whatever he had heard, and was only asking to confirm what he'd already figured out. "I'm not giving you any kind of report until I get yours," he stated flatly.

"Tha's easy," Jazz said, downing the other half of the cube. "Quiet."

Prowl's logic centre buzzed ominously and he quickly did a reboot. "Quiet?"

"Like a church on Saturday night," Jazz clarified, which didn't help Prowl's rebooting software. "Oh, some close-flyin' patrols came in an' out, and the Stunticons went joy-ridin' a couple o' times, an' we intercepted a few coded messages an' all, but otherwise ..." he shrugged. "Quiet."

The tactician's logic centre fully booted up. "They're laying low," he said.

"Real low."

"They're planning something."

"I'd stake my muffler on it, yeah."

Prowl tapped the anonymous datapad absently against his hand. His battle computer was already running through the variables and calculating possibilities, despite not having the full report to work from. "And your team?"

"Mirage took off to th' washracks, and Hound's headed to medbay. He blew a shock on th' trip home," the saboteur leaned back in his seat, a relaxed grin on his visored face. "All in all, a big long borin' mission spent mostly sittin' around inside a hologram, ruminatin' on the meanin' o' life and playin' digital poker over the comm links."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Prowl said wryly. "You should get some recharge. There will be an officers' meeting in two joors. I want the full report before then."

Jazz sighed, spinning the empty cube on his finger. "Slave driver."

"Jazz."

The saboteur looked up to one of Prowl's rare smiles. "It's good you're back. Let me fill you in on what's been going on _here_ since you've been gone ..."

* * *

"And that's pretty much what happened."

Ratchet's drawl might have made anyone else think he was either hung ove, or simply bored with the conversation. Wheeljack knew better.

"Primus," he giggled. "I woulda loved to see the look on Prime's face. Ha-_hah _..."

"I fail to find this funny, 'Jack. I warned them she couldn't handle it."

"You programmed her," he reminded the medic. "I'd say you did a _bang_-up job, all things considered," he chortled, faltering when he caught the dirty look the medic was sending his way. "Ah, lighten up, Ratch. What else happened?"

"Nothing," Ratchet inspected the parts laid out on the berth between them with just a little too much professional detachment. "She shot a few sparks and froze up like a crankcase in December. It was lucky Ironhide caught her before she hit the floor. I put her into stasis again soon as we got her back here."

"Hmm," Wheeljack mused, his well-worn fingers ghosting over the seam in a piece of silver plating. He had hammered the metal as thin as he could without compromising its durability, but the parts still looked bulky next to the little femme's tiny frame. "Well, do we do this while she's still out? I kinda want to see how they restrict her movement ..."

"She's still twitchy. We'll keep her out. Is anything actually ready to be put on her now?"

The engineer stroked the base of his blast-mask. "Most of the base plating is ready to go. The heavier stuff is gonna need to be sized properly, especially for the weight factor." He tapped the green plating with a metal digit. "We have here a 'bot made almost completely out of custom parts."

Ratchet's systems made a strained noise. "Don't remind me," he rumbled. "At least you were able to make do with galvanized human steel instead of melting down the entire slagging spare parts bin. I just hope she never needs a full overhaul."

Wheeljack's eyes crinkled over his mask. "As the humans say, 'knock on wood'."

Ratchet looked like he was going to ask, then thought better of it. "Mute it and hand me that soldering gun. We'll equip these while she's out, then bring her online for sizing the rest. If I can get her to fragging sit still for it."

Selecting some of the more delicate silver-grey pieces, Ratchet began laying them out on a small table next to the prone figure. The berth itself had been tilted upright at a 70-degree angle, partly to make the work easier and partly because of the multitude of cords that once again connected her to Teletraan's medbay console. The little frame barely filled half of a berth designed to hold a model type of Ironhide's stature.

Ratchet had fitted a thin piece of plating to her upper arm and was soldering the seams together with intense focus. His systems had not stopped rumbling. "Careful not to weld the rotating seam," Wheeljack reminded him.

The rumbling increased. "You want to hold my hand while I do this?"

Wheeljack only chuckled at his friend's acerbic temper. "You know, those panels she came with were some piece of work. I never saw anything quite like that circuitry."

Ratchet grunted.

"I think I know what it's for, but I want to run the specs by Grapple first. He knows more about this kind of thing than me."

Grunt.

"And then maybe I'll modify 'em into wake-surfing skiis and we can catch the next solar storm to Saturn. I hear the weather's great this time of stellar-cycle."

"Be careful of its moons," Ratchet said mildly, "I hear there's some potent crystal formations on one of them." He quirked a optic ridge at the inventor. "Yes, I _am_ listening. Were you going somewhere with this?"

"Naw." Wheeljack continued to examine the pieces of armour and plating. "It just occurred to me ... you and me, we see all of this stuff as couplings and screws and bits of code on the monitors, 'cause that's how we're used to lookin' at it. But Prime," the inventor tapped a finger on the lime-green panel and pointed to the prone figure on the berth, "Prime sees all of this when it's put together, and thinks of where the whole thing fits in. Where all of _us_ fit in, you know what I mean?"

Ratchet paused in his work. "Be that as it may," he said slowly, "there's something to be said for seeing the bits and pieces and actually knowing _how it works_. And what _I_ saw yesterday," he finished tersely, "was a complete personality lockup. I wasn't expecting it, I don't know what caused it, but I mean to find out and I don't mean to let her out of this room again until I fix it."

"Isn't that a little extreme?"

"You want her to turn out like the Dinobots?"

Wheeljack frowned above his blast-mask. "Hey now, that was under completely different circumstances."

The soldering gun clattered to the table. "I'll tell you what," the medic said. "Why don't I go work on the programming, and you take care of this? Then we can avoid any _extremities_."

Once again, anyone else might have thought he had just been royally snarked off. But Wheeljack had known Ratchet since before the red-and-white mech had become Prime's CMO, back when he'd been just a battlefield medic and had forcibly recruited the engineer to help him bring back wounded from across enemy lines. It was frustration and not anger that had sparked the other 'bot's temper.

"Maybe it wasn't a lockup," the inventor suggested, taking up the soldering gun while the other 'bot moved to the medical console. "Maybe she was just tuckered out. It was a big day, after all. The programming's probably fine, Ratch."

Ratchet's expression told him he should have known better. "Shall I spell it out? She randomly processes recognition with no pattern," the medic ticked off on his fingers, "she switches between different behavioural aspects with little reason or warning, and she froze up completely after a period of slightly elevated stress. Does any of this sound like it _might_ need fixing to you?"

"That could just _be_ her personality, couldn't it?"

At first Ratchet didn't respond. Then, "How many protoforms have you been around, 'Jack?"

It didn't sound a loaded question. There seemed to be genuine curiosity behind it. "A lot," the inventor answered warily. "I did an internship building protoform shells for one of the Iacon City assembly lines, back in my Academy days. You knew that."

"But how many protoforms did you see _sparked?_" Ratchet pressed. "How many did you actually give their initial programming?"

Wheeljack blinked. "I, uh ... none, actually. I was involved in doing secondary upgrades later on, but that's ..."

"Not the same." Ratchet's fingers drummed on the console. "Maybe it _wasn't_ a lockup," he conceded. "Maybe there really is no glitch. Maybe it'll be fine if I don't change anything. Or maybe it _won't_," he said pointedly. "There's a difference between having one's personality quirks develop over time, and having them _hardwired_ into the processor," he tapped the side of his helm. "So call me crazy, but I want to make sure this one has at least a chance of developing semi-normally, even if it means I lose a little recharge. Or _you_ do."

Something about the medic's tone piqued Wheeljack's curiosity. "You really know a lot about this stuff," he remarked.

The other barked a laugh. "It's my job, isn't it?" he said. "Between you and me," he added, suddenly back to his wry self, "I'm going by my fragging backseat here. So throw me an energon goodie once in a while, will you?"

Wheeljack laughed, and actually did pull a box out of his shoulder compartment to toss at the medic's head.

* * *

Even before he reached the doors to medbay, Hound knew something was already going on inside. Next to Jazz and Blaster, he had the best audios of their entire company and from the sound of it, "the Hatchet" was in full force today. He was wondering if maybe Wheeljack were available for some body-work instead when he was distracted by the sound of very small, very distinct footfalls down the halls.

"Well slap me with a bumper sticker," he grinned as the slender female human rounded the corner. "I'd know that cute little face anywhere." The army Jeep leaned down on one knee closer to the smaller figure clinging to the woman's hand. "Hey Daniel, how's your mom?"

Carly Witwicky laughed as her son ducked shyly behind her leg. "Hi, Hound. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

It was a token to how used to this world he'd become that Hound didn't even have to remind himself that 'a long time' to humans was hardly any time at all to an Autobot. "It sure has," he agreed. "Look how much bigger he is!" he said wistfully at the small human, who was taller than his mother's knee. "You were still carryin' him around last time you were here."

"They grow fast at this age," Carly smiled. "Don't worry, it'll slow down soon. He'll take years to become as old as Spike and I were when we met you."

A few years to an Autobot were really nothing, but Hound had begun to break down time differently since waking up on Earth. Days, months and years were replacing orns and vorns in his internal chronometer. "That's good," he told Carly. "We don't get to see you guys as much anymore."

"We try to make time to bring Daniel here," Carly said, tugging the boy's arm so he swung back and forth between he hand and his grip on her leg, which he seemed to enjoy. "Especially now that he's a little older. But between my parents living in Michigan, Spike's job and my work at the University, it's getting hard to find a day free to make the trip. Where are you headed, if I may ask?"

"To Ratchet's. Want a lift?"

"Love one."

Still grinning, the green Autobot cupped both hands together for Carly to sit on. She plunked Daniel down in her lap and held him firmly as they were lifted up. The boy squealed and bounced excitedly as the floor vanished below them.

Hound laughed at the little human's antics. He remembered first seeing Daniel only a few days after he'd been born. All he'd been able to do then was stare up at the scout and make gurgling noises. Watching him grow and change over the past couple years, after having watched his parents grow up already, Hound could almost see ahead to the person he'd eventually become. The process held no end of fascination for him.

"Is he talking much more?"

"Some." Carly took one of her son's hands from his mouth. "Say hello to Hound, sweetie."

The boy removed his other hand and said, "hi, hown'," before promptly sticking his fingers back in his mouth.

The Jeep laughed in delight. "Hey there, Dano. Careful not to swallow those."

Carly tilted her head, and Hound realized they were close enough to the medbay that she could hear the noise now too. "What's going on in there?"

"Beats me," he shrugged, adjusting his hands so it didn't jar his passengers. "Sounds like I may have to wait my turn."

The door to the medbay was closed. The medbay was never closed unless some kind of important or delicate operation was going on inside and from the sound of it, whatever 'delicate operation' was currently underway was not going according to plan.

"Maybe we should come back," Carly suggested.

Hound was inclined to agreed, but curiosity got the better of him and he elbowed the door chime anyway. Almost right away, the doors slid open and a disgruntled Ratchet nearly stormed straight into him.

The medic did a quick backstep, but the snarling sound emanating from his engine sputtered when he saw who it was. "Oh, it's you. Prowl said you were on your way. You're walking, so you can fragging well turn around and —" His optics fell to the scout's passengers. The sputtering was replaced with a surprised rev, and the medic's glower with a genuine smile. "Carly. Primus, it's good to see you again. How are you?"

The medic had gone from twitching time-bomb to quiet composure in the flip of a gyroscope. Hound bit back a laugh. He had forgotten Ratchet had created that subroutine that kept his temper in check around Spike and Carly's offspring. That meant no elevated voice levels, no sudden movements and absolutely no throwing things so long as Daniel was anywhere near. It even kept some of his legendary snark in line. Hound was suddenly doubly grateful for their unexpected visit, and quickly filed away a reminder to do something really nice for Carly sometime soon.

"Hello, Ratchet," she smiled at him. She knew about the subroutine as well, and was always very appreciative. "Is this a bad time? It sounded ... active in here."

"Ah ..." he gave afurtive look behind him and snorted. "No, no, just ... busy with something. Don't just stand there, Hound," he drew back to let the Jeep pass. "You can come in, but you'll have to wait until 'Jack and I are finished here."

"That's alri —" he started to say, when the sight inside the 'bay threw the words out of his processor.

Wheeljack was seated on one of the medical berths, a collection of outer plating in various sizes and shapes strewn around him. He was holding up a piece of the lime-green armour and looked to be measuring it against the ... _something_ that was clinging with all four limbs to his other arm.

Hound set Carly and Daniel down on one of the empty berths. "Is that ..."

"The piece of salvage we pulled out of the wreckage three weeks ago? Yes," Ratchet snorted. He looked up from his datapad in sudden suspicion. "How did you know about that? You were in radio silence when that happened. Did I miss a briefing?"

Hound shook his head, still watching the odd scene before him. "The comms were buzzing about it as soon as we got back into range," he said. "I didn't quite know what to think ... but I wasn't expecting this." He had honestly never seen anything quite like this little construct. What _were_ those cables sprouting from its head?

Ratchet muttered something about turning Blaster into a toaster oven. Wheeljack finally looked up.

"Heya Hound, hey Carly," he said cheerfully, setting aside one piece, picking up another and holding it up to the little 'bot's exposed shoulder joint. "Long time no see."

"You look a mite incapacitated, 'Jack," Hound remarked, grinning. On the berth beside him, Carly held Daniel and watched in complete fascination. She knew, of course, exactly what wreckage Ratchet was referring to, but whether she had any more information than he did, Hound couldn't have said.

"Aw, this is no problem," the inventor waved his free hand. "Ratchet's new programming specs went a little haywire, that's all." He winked at the medic. Wheeljack was also aware of the medic's parental subroutine and its effect on his colleague's disposition.

Ratchet growled, tapping away at the datapad with his stylus. "Those programming specs were supposed to take care of the shyness."

"Apparently they turned her from shy to _space barnacle._" Even with half his face covered by the blast mask, Wheeljack looked utterly amused.

"So I may have overcompensated. I'll fix it."

"Take your time," 'Jack said happily, picking up another piece of plating. "She's sittin' still for this. Ain'tcha?"

It _was_ a 'she', Hound marvelled. Half her face was hidden behind Wheeljack's arm as she gazed up at her captive, clearly loving the attention he was giving her. She chirped in response.

Looking as though he were grinning from audio to audio behind the ever-present blast mask, Wheeljack gestured to the scout. "Hound and Carly, meet Dirtbike. She's been online ... oh, about a day or so."

Ratchet made a sound not unlike an overladen load-bearing crane. "I wish you wouldn't use that name, Wheeljack."

"What? It's what Ironhide calls her." Wheeljack tapped her on the head with a piece of green plating. "She likes it. Don'tcha, Dirtbike?"

Another happy chirp was the answer. Ratchet snorted and turned around, clearly not amused.

Grinning, Hound took a step closer. "Hi."

He expected another answering chirp. Instead the face turned to look at him, then pulled back behind Wheeljack again. And _giggled._

Carly burst into laughter. Even though she was only one berth away, the little femme looked around in confusion before finally noticing the human. Her optics went wide and then narrowed to tiny points of light.

"Hello there," Carly called, leaning forward and shifting Daniel so she could wave with one arm.

"She's not talking much today," Wheeljack supplied. "We can't figure why."

"She's also not _listening_ much either," Ratchet quipped over his shoulder. "Are you almost done, 'Jack?"

"Just about."

"Then do you mind entertaining Carly for a bit while I deal with Hound's shocks? I've run enough fr– ... _blasted_ diagnostics today to make my optics fritz."

"Oh, you don't need to Wheeljack," Carly said, still holding onto Daniel (Hound figured it was safer, considering how high off the floor the berth was). "I'm happy just to watch."

"It's not a problem," Wheeljack assured her cheerfully. The inventor slid off the berth, his passenger willingly coming with. Undeterred, Wheeljack reached around her with his other hand. "Hold on a tick," he said, pressing somewhere in the mess of wires on her uncovered back. She gave a little twitch and suddenly lost her grip on his arm.

Carly looked alarmed. "That didn't hurt her, did it?"

"No," Ratchet said, as Wheeljack set her down, optics flickering in surprise, on the floor. "Just temporarily interrupted her motor relay." He turned to Hound. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Obligingly, the scout slid onto an empty berth. There was only so far he was willing to push the limits of that subroutine, after all. "Has it been like this for very long around here?"

Ratchet's engine grumbled. "Oh, _don't _get me started."

* * *

"You've picked a rather eventful time to visit us," Oprimus Prime said.

Spike Witwicky looked up at his boyhood hero and couldn't help cracking a smile reminiscent of his younger self. "So I've been hearing. The media is tearing you guys apart right now. That's kind of why we're here." He kept a brisk pace alongside Prime, knowing the red and blue Autobot had deliberately slowed his walk through the corridor to accommodate the human who stood barely half as high as his shinguard.

"Carly said she wanted to bring Daniel back to visit again," he went on, "but she's been strongly hinting we should become more ... _officially_ involved in this."

Prime rumbled. "I appreciate the support, my friend."

"But." The word didn't have to spoken aloud for Spike to hear it.

_"But_, I'm not certain it would do any good." They reached the lookout that peered out over the entrance to the base and across the forest that sprawled at the base of Mount Saint Hilary. "And if the recent event in Portland is any indication," he continued, "I'm afraid it would put your family at unnecessary risk."

Spike leaned on the edge of the wall-sized lookout opening and shrugged. "Never stopped us before. And the Autobots have been without a human liaison since Daniel was born."

"Hmm," Prime chuckled. "Not for lack of trying. I know the Twins took great pride in driving off anyone they considered 'unworthy' for the position." He sobered. "I could not impose this on you, Spike, or on Carly and Daniel especially. Your family is very important to us."

The human chuckled. "We need to redefine the term 'imposing'. You have to admit, it would make things easier for you guys right now, to reopen a formal embassy in the Ark. Patch up some strained relationships with the human race, ease some of that political tension ..."

"It would," Prime agreed.

"Seriously, Optimus," Spike said, and suddenly Prime caught a flash of that curly-haired teenager, excitable, steadfast and eager to please. The man before him, with the brown tie and jacket and the shadow of a beard, still bore that expression of dependability. "Say the word, and we're back. I know dad wouldn't mind a bit, and as for Carly ... well, you know where we all stand. That's all I'm saying."

"I understand, and thank you, Spike."

Spike sighed. "But?"

Optimus looked out from the mountainside and would have smiled if he'd been able. Despite the bite in the air, the landscape was still the deep green of late summer. Off in the distance, a dust cloud signalled the return of a patrol team. Realizing he wasn't going to answer right away, Spike followed his gaze and they stood in thoughtful silence.

"It is a very strange thing," Prime said eventually, "something more than the simple creation of a new being. It is ... less tangible. You, Carly, Daniel ... all of you together have become something that did not exist before. It reminds me that we, who have stayed the same for eons, have also become something else since we woke up here. This kind of change is wondrous ... and extremely precious."

"Yeah," the human said quietly. "Yeah, it is."

"Your first responsibility, _our_ first responsibility, is to preserve that," the Autobot leader said softly. "I have already seen so much lost or damaged beyond repair. We need to protect what is new, to give it the chance to grow. Someday, it will heal what we've broken."

Spike had no answer, and so they stood together and watched the dust cloud grow nearer, eventually forming into a pair of Lamborghinis swerving back and forth as they raced each other back to the base.

"You know," the human said with a smirk. "You like to segue an awful lot."

"I'm good at it."

"If you change your mind?"

"You'll be the first to know." Prime bent down on one leg and rested his arm over his knee. "Now, it has been far too long since I've seen you, my friend. Tell me more about your family."

* * *

At Carly's scream, Ratchet let the tool he held clatter right into Hound's innards and spun around.

It was a klik before his processor caught up to the scene before him. A few moments before, Wheeljack had taken a seat on the floor with Carly and her son, and Dirtbike had somehow been persuaded not to wrap herself around any of Wheeljack's limbs again. As he'd begun work on Hound's injury, Carly had managed to get her attention and had engaged the little femme in a game of 'patty-cake'. The inane singsong and bubbling laughter had been suddenly interrupted by a sound halfway between a gasp and a shriek, and it only took that klik for Ratchet to realize why.

Dirtbike was holding Daniel.

Ratchet's motor hitched. The little 'bot clutched the boy in both hands and was emitting excited, high-pitched chirps, not unlike when she'd been clinging with all her strength to Wheeljack's arm.

The medic was two strides across the medbay floor before anyone could even twitch. Dirtbike let out a startled yelp when his fingers jabbed into her back with practised precision, his other hand curling around to catch the child as her arms went limp. Carly gasped again, this time in relief, as Ratchet cradled her son safely in the palm of his hand, the other firmly latched onto Dirtbike's exposed shoulder struts.

Wheeljack, who hadn't dared move while still in her line of sight, let out a heavy vent of air. "I ... I don't know where that came from," he said, sounding thoroughly shaken. "She just ... _grabbed_ him."

Ratchet held Daniel out for Carly, who gratefully scooped her son back into her arms and proceeded to give him a thorough pat-down. Gripping Dirtbike like a human would a cat, Ratchet yanked her to her feet and dragged her back across the 'bay, away from the humans and back to the berth she had occupied before. His systems were practically grinding in fury and it was only that subroutine, installed for Daniel's sake, that kept him from verbally tearing her apart from up one side and down the other. Regardless, right now he was going to put her straight back into stasis, strap her to that berth and keep her there until he found whatever bit of fragged-up glitch code that had possessed her to try such a ...

"Ratchet!"

Carly's voice snapped him out of his furious haze. Her face was still pale, but he could see her heart rate was rapidly lowering. She held her son tightly and stared at the medic, aghast. Hound, on the nearby berth, was also staring as well as he could around the bulk of his own chest. Wheeljack still hadn't moved from the floor.

"Ratchet," Carly said again, her voice strained. "What are you _doing_? Let go of her!"

He stopped in his tracks. Dirtbike struggled frantically in his grip, her tiny hands scrabbling at his fingers. "Primus, what does it _look_ like I'm doing?" he sputtered, the heat from his snarling engine making his vocalizer crackle. "She could have hurt Daniel! If it were anyone else, I'd've torn their motor relay out!"

Carly straightened to her full height, which seemed more imposing than it had a right to be, considering the scale of her surroundings. "Daniel is fine," she said gently, cradling the boy firmly in one arm and striding forward until the medic had to crane his head down to look at her. "Let her _go_, Ratchet. You're hurting her."

He was about to protest that he was doing no such thing, when a second, higher-pitched whine reached his audios. Dirtbike was squirming and tugging frantically at his grip, squealing in distress. His hand snapped open in reflex and she went sprawling to the floor. Scrambling backwards until she hit the wall, she curled up and huddled against it, her systems making pathetic little hitching noises.

He did a quick surface probe with his built-in medical scanners. "She's fine," his said gruffly, his systems beginning to cool. "Just agitated. I need to put her in stasis."

Carly frowned. "What? What do you need to do that for?"

"What for? To find out what just happened!"

To his surprise, Carly laughed. The sound was quite sudden and strained. She held Daniel a little closer. "It was a _mistake_, Ratchet. We should have been watching her more carefully."

Ratchet's optics narrowed at her calm, if shaken, tone. Daniel was indeed fine; he'd done a split second scan the moment the boy had been in his hands and aside from some elevated excitement, he was unaffected by the entire ordeal. Still, the medic thought Carly of all people ought to understand just how badly that 'mistake' could have ended for her tiny, squishy offspring.

"Carly," he said, deeply serious. "If there was a mistake, it was mine. I underestimated her programming defects. I should have put her back offline the moment you two came in. I'm sorry."

Carly stared at him, mystified. "'Programming defects'? Ratchet, what are you talking about?"

He made an effort to fully calm his agitated systems. "I don't think you understand," he explained gently. "I didn't get a chance to explain. She needs a lot of work done on her processor before she can be considered normal. Right now she isn't functioning like the rest of us, like ..." he gestured in frustration, grasping for a suitable comparison. "Like a human with a mental deficiency. Her mind isn't working the way it should be."

Carly's mouth formed a small 'o' of surprise and, and for a moment he was satisfied she understood him. But then her face melted into an expression of utter disappointment and she slowly shook her head. "Oh, _Ratchet_," she said with deep admonishment. "She's not deficient, she's a _child_."

Ratchet felt something in his gears grind nicely to a halt. Had this been anyone else, he would have assumed her maternal hormones were getting the better of her. "Carly, Cybertronians don't _have_ children," he said with tightly reigned exasperation. "You know that. We're created through a manufacturing process."

She gave him a sideways look that, when she had been younger, would usually have been accompanied by an indignant _'duh'_. "Of course I know that," she huffed, "and that isn't what I meant. She's what you call a 'sparkling', isn't she?"

His optics narrowed. "It's not the same thing."

Wheeljack chose that moment to jump in. "A sparkling is a newly sparked protoform," the inventor supplied. "They're fully functional, but they tend to be a little ..." he trailed off when Ratchet glared solidly in his direction.

"She's not that either," the medic argued. "Protoforms are fully completed on the assembly lines before they're even sparked, for Primus' sake. All they lack is task-specific upgrades and experience. _She_ didn't even start out with basic programming routines. What do you think I ... _we've_ been doing for the past three weeks? It's going to take _months_ of work to get her up to spec."

The woman shook her head. "You're missing my point, Ratchet. It doesn't matter how she was made, it matters that she's still _growing_."

The medic fought the urge to grind his dental plates. "She'll be _growing_ via a system of periodic upgrades and information packages, not through a process of cellular reproduction."

Carly sighed. "Potato, potahto. Hold Daniel."

Ratchet's hands were waiting to receive the boy almost as soon as she held him out. As much as he would have blamed the subroutine for that, he was intensely fond of the Witwicky family and Carly's unflinching trust in allowing him to handle her child never failed to evoke that response. He curled his fingers securely around the infant and watched in apprehension as his mother walked calmly across the floor to where Dirtbike still huddled against the wall.

Wheeljack stood and came closer, just in case, and both of them stood ready for the first sign that their human friend was in danger. Hound kept his optics on the scene, though knew better than to try and get up with his chest cavity exposed and Ratchet within hurling distance, Daniel or no Daniel.

Carly ignored all of them. She reached up to gently stroke the hands the little 'bot had clasped over her head, murmuring in a low sweet voice. The words would have been muted to human ears, but Cybertronian audios picked them up clearly. They watched as she continued to reassure the small femme that everything was alright, she wasn't in trouble, no one was mad at her ...

Frowning, Ratchet reached for the datapad on the berth next to him, tucking the stylus into the hand that held Daniel. The medbay sensors confirmed his own scanning systems. Dirtbike's stress levels were decreasing steadily.

Another sound distracted him and he looked down at his other hand. Daniel was happily chewing on the end of the stylus, which was roughly the size of a baseball bat to him. Ratchet glared petulantly at the child's innocent face. That particular stylus already bore marks from a much larger set of teeth.

Carly cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to her. She stood at his feet again. Dirtbike was still crouched against the wall, but she had uncurled herself and was watching him with very large, plaintive optics.

"Alright," he conceded. "You may be onto something here."

She smiled and shook her head ruefully. "Why, thank you, Ratchet," she said sweetly. "Now apologize to her."

There was a very long, silent moment while Hound and Wheeljack watched the medic digest that statement. "What?" he finally said.

Carly crossed her arms. "You," she said, "will _apologize_," she enunciated the word carefully, "to _her."_

She pointed to Dirtbike, who shifted her optics from him to the yellow-haired human and back again.

"You must," Ratchet bit off, "be _joking_."

If she had looked disappointed before, her face now eclipsed that entirely. "I am very serious, Ratchet," she said. "You've upset her terribly. Now _fix_ it."

He caught himself sending a furtive look to Wheeljack, who only put up his hands as if to say 'oh no, I'm not getting into the middle of _this'_. Dirtbike hadn't so much as twitched, but her tension levels were beginning to rise once more.

Carly's foot began to tap on the metal floor, and Ratchet realized with a sinking feeling in his tanks that this was one argument he was not going to win.

* * *

"I swear, I have never seen anything like it."

Blaster hmm'd at his friend. "I get the drift," he warbled.

Tracks rambled on. "They just ... _swarmed_ me, like ... like _insects_," he shuddered. "What could have possessed them to try something like that? As if they could have done any damage to _me_ ...hurling those sticks and stones around like savages."

"Sounds to me like those stones broke a few bones, homes."

The red face pinched into a petulant look at Blaster's easy speech. "It isn't _funny_, Blaster. What if I'd been a Decepticon? We'd be scraping them up off the street like so much overcooked bacon." He shook his head in irritation. "_Idiots_, that's what they are. Silly fools, all of them."

"I get it," Blaster drained the last of his cube and tossed the container over his shoulder into the reclamation bin. "We are well and truly in the doghouse with the humans, my friend." He tapped one of his audio horns. "What you think I been hearin' on the airwaves from San Fran' to Louisian'? We are number one on the top ten to hate right now."

"It isn't _right_," Tracks grumped, morosely swirling the liquid in his own untouched cube.

"Cheer up, brother," Blaster knuckled his friend on the wing. "It'll blow over. Always does. You can't keep this kind of cool off the charts forever."

The Corvette made some non-committal grumble and fell into a gloomy silence, leaving Blaster to focus his attention on the rest of the rec room, which he did gladly. Turning up his audios, Bumblebee's warm, easy laugh reached him from where he sat with Spike, the two of them chatting as though they'd last seen each other only yesterday and not several months ago. Across the room at the gaming consoles, the Twins were arguing about whose high score beat out the other's, Sideswipe's crash record on _Twisted Metal 2_ or Sunstreaker's kill list on _Quake_. From the table next to him, Hound, Trailbreaker and Jazz suddenly burst into such raucous laughter that half the room, including Tracks, turned to see what was so funny.

"Did he ..." Jazz wheezed, his voice crackling with static, "... did he _actually_?"

Hound couldn't stop giggling. "He did, too. I couldn't believe it. She had him by the ... oh, what's the saying?"

"'By the balls'," Jazz supplied, grinning. Trailbreaker guffawed and hunched over his drink.

"By the balls," Hound chortled, raising his cube to Jazz. "That's it exactly. Primus," he snickered.

The three of them let their mirth run its course before settling back down with a collective sigh. Jazz nudged Hound on the shoulder.

"So spill, m' mech," he prodded. "What's it look like?"

"_She_," Hound corrected. "She looks ..."

A startled shout and a loud clang had every head turn to the open door. Blaster, being at one of he closest tables, got to his feet first. Several others followed to see what the commotion was.

Mirage was backed up against the corridor wall, the blue and white spy holding one leg out in the air. The reason for this, Blaster assumed, was the small green thing that was latched onto the limb and chirping excitedly.

Hound pushed through next to Blaster, and let out a laugh when he saw what was going on. "Like that," he said to Jazz. While the doorway crowded with more onlookers, Mirage sent a plaintive, questioning look to the scout.

Still grinning, Hound gestured to the spy's leg. "Mirage, this is Dirtbike. I think she likes you."

To his credit, Mirage didn't try to shake his passenger off. He straightened, still holding his leg at an angle, his masked face struggling to regain some kind of composure. "How nice," he managed finally.

Running footsteps announced Ratchet a second before he rounded the corner, Wheeljack close behind him holding Carly in his hand. The medic slid to a stop at the crowded rec room door and vented a sigh of relief.

"Oh good," he said. "She didn't lock up again."

"I _told_ you," Carly chimed.

Wheeljack's headfins flashed merrily. "Looks like she made a friend."

Muffled snickers came from the room behind him, and this time Blaster added his own. This was the funniest thing he'd seen in weeks. Incidentally, he had been recording the entire scene from the moment he was at the door.

Mirage stared down at the rapidly chirping little 'bot that had claimed his leg. He started to reach for her, then pulled his hand back, unsure. He looked helplessly at the medic. "Ratchet?"

The glare he got was enough to melt glass. "Keep your transistors in line. I'll fix it."

* * *

**End Chapter 3: Fixing It**

* * *

_A/N: It consistently annoys me in fics when the 'bots are written as though they are human, with words like "creator" and "sparkling" in place of "parent" and "child". If that's the way the author chooses to interpret it that's fine. But I don't see it that way at all. There is a drastic difference in the two walks of life and Dirtbike doesn't fit into either of them. Thus Ratchet's difficulty in understanding how to deal with her._

_Feel free to review if you want to discuss further, or even tell me I'm full of horse ploppins' ...XD_


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